Perfection
by The Smiling Shadow
Summary: SmithSLASHSmith Before his death, before everything. Smith was free, and free to choose. He bathed in his own glory, his own perfection. He just couldn't stop...He couldn't stop from loving his power, his perfection, himself...


Perfection  
  
Everybody wants to be perfect. Perfection means we are important, perfection means we are accomplished, we are strong. But no one is perfect. No one can be perfect. But we try nonetheless. We wear suits, we dress important, we earn respect.  
  
But none have achieved perfection.  
  
Or none have allowed perfection to be achieved.  
  
So he stood there, and watched the Viruses run in their own filth. He turned his head away, trying to escape the smells. Humans were a disease. He was the cure. But he didn't know how much longer he could last. They were everywhere. Always close to him, never leaving him alone.  
  
And there was one that broke all boundaries.  
  
"Mr. Anderson. . ." He made a fist.  
  
The Virus that killed him. The Virus that freed him. The Virus that took everything away. . .  
  
His purpose was gone, and alone he stood. He ran away from the others. He remembered the shock Jones and Brown had when he ran. He remembered the earpiece commanding him to return. And now the earpiece lay in his hand.  
  
He stared at it, scanning it. He found it strange that all those years he had been with it, he never really looked at it. He never really thought about it. Something so small, and yet he had been under its power, its control for so long. But not anymore. He turned it gently in his hand, just staring at it.  
  
He wasn't an Agent anymore.  
  
He held it up to his ear, and he could still hear the Mainframe, commanding him to return. He wondered if they'd ever stop.  
  
Everything weighed him down. Everything held him back. Every human holding him to his purpose, the rebels making him kill them. The Mainframe giving him nothing, just a command to search and destroy. They never gave him a mind, never a choice. Just kill, kill and you wont be killed.  
  
Smith made a fist around the earpiece.  
  
He had so much potential. . . And they kept him from knowing that, they never said anything. He smiled. Were they afraid?  
  
And so he stands there, an earpiece in his hand, and he waits. Perfect posture, perfect suit, perfect shined shoes, perfect sunglasses. He stands there and stares at the door, waiting. The abandon building which he and Mr. Anderson both died in. His surroundings, nowhere near perfection. A run down place, holes in the wall, the paint pealing, and a phone that never rang.  
  
He was alone, and he waited.  
  
Always waiting.  
  
Never really knowing what he is waiting for.  
  
In the silence, he stood, unmoving, unfading, always in perfection.  
  
And then the door opens, and he walks in. Five of him come to him, and walk next to him. He nods to one.  
  
They always kept him from his potential. They never told him what he could be. They never said he could be stronger. They were afraid. Afraid of him, afraid of this, afraid of what he would become if he knew.  
  
He was a Virus now.  
  
One of him stepped forth, and the others left to fulfill their purpose. The earpiece still in his hand, he stared at himself. The two looked as if they were staring into a mirror. Same height, same posture, same face, not moving, never showing emotion.  
  
Smith slightly smiled at himself in his glory.  
  
Smith threw the earpiece to the floor, not caring where it landed. He stepped closer to his copy, who stood still unmoving. Smith scanned the copy up and down, wanting to memorize every part of himself, remember every inch.  
  
He straightened the copy's tie, and brushed the wrinkles out of its jacket. The copy slightly turned its head to him. The both showed no emotion.  
  
Smith looked at himself in almost envy.  
  
He walked to the side of the copy, laying his hand on its chest, and leaning close to its ear. He felt the beating of human heart. He looked down at his hand on the copy's chest. It felt human, it beat like human, but it was not. He was not human. He had no heart, only codes vibrating throughout the being, trying to make him seem as human as possible. They did this to him. They gave him the thing that beat in his chest.  
  
They bounded him to the rules. They held him down. They wouldn't let him be free. They wouldn't let him be the very thing he was.  
  
Perfect.  
  
That is what he always was. Perfect. Stronger, faster, smarter. Smarter than his colleagues, smarter than humans. He was the greatest Agent, he understood a human more. He was able to anticipate their moves, their thoughts. But this very understanding of them, disgusted him. But it was irrelevant now.  
  
Smith leaned closer to the ear of the copy, and breathed slowly. The copy didn't move.  
  
Smith lowered his head on his copy's shoulder.  
  
He was perfect. They were perfect.  
  
"We don't smell like them." Smith whispered.  
  
Smith raised his head, and sniffed the copy on the neck, soaking in the fresh scent, not tarnished by any human smells. It was a relief.  
  
He was perfect, and he wanted to touch perfection. He wanted something no one else would ever had. He wanted to know perfection by heart. Memorize perfection, know perfection, hold on to it, and never forget it.  
  
Perfection is all he is, perfection is all he has. He must never let it get away.  
  
The copy turns its head to him. Smith gently removes the sunglasses off his copy. And he is welcomed by ice blue eyes. He breathes in deeply at the deep stare his copy gives him. Perfection.  
  
He loves his perfection, he is envious of himself.  
  
He must love himself, he must know himself. But he cannot love. He refuses to. But still, he lingers in his own perfection.  
  
He loves him.  
  
Smith rubs the shoulders of his copy, and gently begins to take the jacket off. The copy only moves his head, still staring at him. Smith rubbed his copies arms, massaging them, soaking the perfection in.  
  
No one was going to take this away from him.  
  
Smith walked around his copy, to face him. Smith lowers his head to rest on the copy's shoulders again, and begins to unbutton its shirt.  
  
"They did so much to me, you know." Smith whispered.  
  
"I know." The copy replied.  
  
"I grew used to it after a while. I adapted to not being like Jones, or Brown. But sometimes, I just had to let go. . ."  
  
Smith finished unbuttoning the shirt, and laid on his copy's shoulder.  
  
The copy wrapped his arms around Smith.  
  
"It's the smell, if there is such a thing. . . I can smell your filth. . ." The copy quoted.  
  
Smith slightly smiled.  
  
"Yes, that's it. . ." Smith whispered.  
  
"And every time I do, I fear I've become infected by it. . ." The copy continued.  
  
Smith started undoing the copy's tie, still resting on his shoulder.  
  
Perfection.  
  
And a white collard shirt fell to the floor, and a black tie.  
  
Smith backed away, and stared at the perfection. The copy tilted its head, and walked closer to Smith. The copy gently took off Smith sunglasses.  
  
And Smith stared with his own eyes at himself.  
  
The copy continued with taking off Smith's jacket, and Smith only watched. When the copy reached to unbutton his shirt, Smith grabbed his arm. Smith stared at himself.  
  
He pushed to two of them to the floor, the copy surrendered to Smith's control.  
  
"You are perfect." Smith whispered, before kissing his copy.  
  
There was no smell, there was no pain. Only the heat, the perfection of himself. He kissed himself, and soaked his perfection, he held it tightly, and loved it. He rocked it, and made sure to care for it.  
  
He was going to let anyone take his perfection away, his power away.  
  
And as the copy held Smith, and got on top of him, Smith stared and tilted his head, grabbing his copy's hips.  
  
"Do you hear that, Mr. Anderson?" The copy quoted Smith.  
  
Smith breathed out deeply.  
  
"That is the sound of inevitability. . ." The copy finished.  
  
"Ahhhh. . ." Smith whispered in pleasure from his own voice, his own words.  
  
The copy lowered himself on top of Smith, and started undoing his tie. Smith lowered his head to rest on the floor.  
  
"Anderson. . ." The copy whispered slowly.  
  
Perfection.  
  
Sweet, sweet perfection.  
  
And it was all his. His choice. His power. His perfection. He wasn't going to let it die, he wasn't going to let it go.  
  
Smith embraced his perfection, and smelled nothing but fresh air.  
  
Smith closed his blue eyes.  
  
And a tie, shirt, and belt fell on the floor.  
  
The copy lay above Smith, and stared at him, pants slipping off.  
  
The copy lowered his face inches from Smith's, and the copy saw a glimmer of pleasure.  
  
"No." The copy shook his head. "We. We are perfect."  
  
Smith smiled. His copy kissed him, and he rested his head on the floor. Opening his eyes just barely he breathed deeply. And he waited again. He waited for the warmth, the safety, the perfection. He waited for the inevitable to take hold of him.  
  
Yes. Yes he was perfect. 


End file.
